


Lingering Warmth

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Barely Legal, Canon Temporary Character Death, Extremely Dubious Consent, Final Battle, M/M, Necrophilia, Rape/Non-con Elements, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:06:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24403291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In the aftermath of Harry's death, Voldemort admires Harry's corpse, and when Harry comes back to life he finds himself in a perplexing situation.(Takes Place after Harry dies in The Deathly Hallows, Chapter 34.)
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 21
Kudos: 266





	Lingering Warmth

**Author's Note:**

> Well the ending sucks immensely but I've had this sitting for months in my drafts and I still have no new ideas so here's to badly written porn. Cheers mate.
> 
> Warnings: Mild necrophilia, Extremely Dubious Consent/Non-Con Elements, Temporary Character Death.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own the Harry Potter franchise because if I did everything would be gayer. That is all.

Harry Potter gives the slightest upturn of the corner of his mouth, the smallest smile, as the green light of the killing curse hits, his eyes fluttering shut soft as butterfly wings. He doesn't crumple or make a sound, he simply falls forward, collapsing like a puppet without strings. His body lies still and silent on the ground, glasses skewed oddly, his hair forming an inky veil and obscuring most of his face. His hair doesn't cover his lips, not yet pale, still warm and rose pink with life that no longer thrums through him, or the sharp cut of his jawline.

In death, Harry Potter is tragically beautiful, so painfully beautiful in a way that makes it feel unreal. Harry Potter has always been difficult to defeat, impossible to kill, and the sight of his corpse is wrong. He looks less like a dead body and more like a doll discarded on the ground by a careless child, unreal and beautiful even covered in forest debris. All around the triumph of his following surrounds him in a dull roar of celebration. but Voldemort's gaze is fixated on the boy, his prophesied vanquisher. So small and delicate, a child adult, too young to die.

He hadn't realized how much he looked forward to their little fights before, but now, with Harry Potter lying face down on the ground, all Voldemort feels is cold disbelief.

"Quiet." His voice is quiet as the breeze, but an instant hush falls over the gathered death eaters. "Leave me."

There is a moment of quiet hesitation, he can feel their curiosity, but no one dares to outright disobey him. His death eaters leave him to the silence of the forest clearing with only the corpse of his little enemy as company.

A sense of morbid curiosity overtakes him as he stares down at the corpse, and before he can process the action, Voldemort crosses the clearing and kneels beside Harry Potter, the boy who lived, his chosen one. He presses two long white fingers against the curve of his neck. His skin is still warm, but no pulse thuds below his fingers. The lack of it leaves him oddly bereft.

As if in a trance, Voldemort moves his other hand so he can push the boy onto his back. His corpse is heavy, limp, and his hair forms a halo of shadows across the leaves decorating the forest floor. He stared down at the boy. He has freckles, pale little constellations decorating his tanned skin, so light they are barely noticeable. He pushes the hair out of Harry's face, admiring the pale silvery lines of lightning on his forehead, the mark he left when he chose him all those years ago. Voldemort peels back his eyelids, but shuts them quickly. The glassy dull emerald green lacked the fire and fury he'd wished to find. His fingers trace across the boys rosy lips. Soft as silk. Before he can stop himself, his own lipless mouth is pressed to the boy's soft pliant mouth.

Voldemort groans softly, then uses his fingers to gently coax Harry Potter's mouth open so he can slip his forked tongue into that sweet mouth. It is an awkward sort of kiss given Harry can not respond to the way he maps out every corner of the boy's mouth, how he eagerly drinks the nectar of his lips and tongue, tasting everything Harry's limp corpse has to offer him. Briefly, a thought creeps into his mind of one of his followers seeing him like this, half leaning over the dead body of his enemy with his tongue in his mouth, but he pushes it away viciously. None will disturb him until he calls.

Voldemort pulls away to push that ugly stained shirt up, unwrapping a present of golden skin and hard lines. His stomach is hard and thin, the combination of constant movement and little food, just as telling of his spending months on the run as his longer hair and light stubble. On his chest, his nipples are pink pearls, the same shade as his lips, and he presses on one to watch it flatten and then poke back up. Harry's skin is warm, as if he is still alive, but he is growing colder slowly, and when Voldemort presses his ear to Harry's chest there is no sound.

Harry is wearing ripped trousers, slightly too short, slightly too form fitting. When Voldemort unbutton them, he pulls them down and off his legs swiftly. They catch on his threadbare sneakers, but he tugs them off too, leaving Harry in bunched, half off, purple socks with snitches and broomsticks stitched on them, and a pair of plain blue boxers that had seen better days. Voldemort slides the shirt up over Harry's head, and Harry's head and back thud against the forest floor when he finishes dragging the shirt up over his arms.

There he lies, his arms bent at an awkward angle, his thighs spilled open, as if on display. And what a marvellous display he makes, golden skinned with strong thighs and a perfect chest. His little nemesis is stunning, he has thought so since he saw him bound to his father's grave the day of his resurrection. Voldemort has often dreamed of this, though admittedly he hasn't imagined Harry dead, nor quite as young as he is. Legally an adult or not, Harry is still just a teenager, and Voldemort hadn't been planning to touch him, to offer even, until he was at least twenty. But Harry is dead now, and no one is there to judge or protest, not even the boy himself.

"Beautiful." Voldemort praises, pulling off his socks to reveal oddly nice feet, and then his boxers to show off his slender hips and cock.

Harry's prick is smaller than his own, lying soft against his belly, uncircumcised. He has an oddly dark freckle that stands out against the pale purple of his veins, just the one, It won't harden, not even if he were to stroke him, but Voldemort still wraps his hand around Harry's penis so he can feel it. It is average in all ways, but somehow just the act of wrapping his fingers around him is the most erotic thing he has experienced since his resurrection. His own twitches and hardens under his robes as he plays with Harry's soft little cock.

Voldemort knows he should stop. He should redress the boy and dispose of his body, but his hands have a mind of their own. He arranges Harry's legs to his liking and then situates himself between them. He lifts his fingers to his own mouth, wetting them before slipping them down to tease at Harry's hole.

As his fingers tease and stretch, he leans in for another kiss, sliding his fingers to the rhythm of his tongue, growing rougher by the second. His tongue slides across teeth and curls around an unresponsive tongue, drinking in the decadence of his lips. Voldemort pulls back only to bite and suck at Harry's lovely jawline and throat. Heart thudding, inpatient and knowing his privacy will end soon if he doesn't contact someone soon, he reluctantly pulls his fingers away from the warm tightness of Harry's body. It's not like he can hurt Harry anymore, the little time he took to prepare his body to take him should be good enough.

He pushes his robes open enough to pull out his cock, jutting hard and bone white, the head pale purple and his skin cut unlike Harry's. He rubs his thumb across the head of his cock, his hips stuttering as precome wells up under his thumb. He wraps a hand around the back of Harry's neck, the angle slightly awkward so that his fingers are pressed where his pulse would be, and with his other he presses the tip of his cock into the still and unresponsive body. Curiously, he feels a flutter under his fingers, and he pauses just a moment to be certain he felt what he thought he felt.

Against all odds he feels it, the stuttering frantic beat of a heart. Harry's long eyelashes flutter, his lips pull down into an unintentional frown. Voldemort is unprepared for the sheer force of his elation, knowing the one he killed lives.

"Hello Harry Potter." Voldemort pants, tilting his head so he might see his eyes open.

Harry continues to lay limp and unresponsive, as if his pulse doesn't give him away. Voldemort narrows his eyes as a sharp spike of annoyance bursts in his mind, and in a single punishing movement he pushes his cock deeper into the boy beneath him. Harry is unable to stay still and silent, letting out a pained little yelp as his beautiful eyes fly open, a vivid green that puts the emeralds of Salazar Slytherin to shame, and his sharp nails dig into Voldemort's arms.

"Voldemort." He grits out with venom in his voice.

He grins viciously in response and pulls back so he can fuck into the boy harder. Harry makes a chocked off sound, his thighs tightening around Voldemort's hips even as he glares defiantly from beneath him. Voldemort grabs his jaw and forces his head to stay still as he presses his lips brutally against Harry's. The boy struggles, his hands coming to push at his chest, trying to lift his hips to throw him off, but Voldemort just presses their lips together until Harry has to open his mouth to breathe. He takes advantage of the gasp to tangle his tongue around Harry's in a brutal kiss. This is more like he imagined, a fight more than a kiss. Amazingly, astoundingly, Harry stops his struggles faster than he'd expected, soon melting into the kiss. Voldemort breaks the kiss to thrust into his little nemesis.

Again and again, each thrust drawing out some form of lovely noise from Harry's lips, be it a moan, a curse, a protest, or rarely his name. Harry is so tight and warm around his cock, and every moan and half-hearted protest that spills from his lips is nirvana that only grows more urgent as those legs curl around him and his hand fists in his robes, one digging into the flesh of his shoulder, no doubt drawing blood with those clever little nails. His eyes are not revolted, nor fearful, there is pleasure in his eyes, and curiosity. And how dies he explain, when he no longer has Harry's body writhing under his own, that, when faced with Harry's death, his first instinct was to prove it wasn't true by doing such a depraved act to his corpse. But then, how does Harry intend to brush thus off, the way he moans and clutches at him? How will Harry explain away the way his hips lift to meet each thrust, or how he calls out so sweetly for him, or even greedy the way his hands grasp at skin and cloth? Certainly he started this, no doubt about that, but Harry isn't fighting so much as actively encouraging.

Voldemort presses their lips together again, patient, and Harry's mouth opens like a flower, with a groan of his name stuttering off his tongue as his brilliant defiant eyes flutter shut. He devours his lips, kisses the boy deep enough that he can taste his soul, and his hand travels from Harry's pulse to his cock. The boy pants and moans against his mouth, encouraging, lustful. His cock is heavy and hot in Voldemort's hand, and he keeps his fingers moving up and down to the sloppy rhythm of the kiss.

Soon Harry comes, his head tipping back as his back arches, his toes curling and thighs tightening around his hips, clawing his back and crying out a mix of curses and his name; not his chosen title but his muggle name, which sounds like the sweetest music from his lips. His own release hits like an explosion, warmth and pleasure bursting from deep within him as his come spills into the beautiful boy under him.

Panting, they lay in a tangle of sweaty limbs, hearts beating loud, breath coming in short pants. Harry's fingers trace a swirling pattern across his shoulders, ever so often catching on a place where skin had broken. He simply rests his head against the boy's chest, the sound of his heart like thunder and salvation, but the spell of peace can't last forever. Reluctantly he pulls away from the boy, who stays lying on the forest floor, debauched and sinfully gorgeous, his chest heaving. Voldemort adjusts his robes and hands Harry his discarded clothes. He watches as the boy covers his lovely golden skin, bruised and marked by his hands and teeth.

"Do you want to talk about what that was all about?" He asks eventually, after he's dressed again.

Voldemort raises an eyebrow. "Do you?" He counters calmly.

He doesn't feel calm. He feels like he's two seconds away from appearating away, now that he has to face the fact that he had not only fucked his young enemy, without his consent, but that he'd felt up his corpse too, however temporary that state of being was.

Harry gives him a strange look. "Okay, are you gonna call your troops back, or do you want to fight, because I'm strangely not in the mood to fight after dying and coming back to... Well, that."

Voldemort chuckles darkly. "I suppose I could allow you a reprieve given what you've been through." Harry cracks a hesitant smile. He sends the message to his death eaters ordering them to retreat to headquarters through the mark. "Bury your dead Potter. I'll see you in a month or so for a rematch."

Harry grins outright. "Shall I be prepared for a repeat?"

Startled, he blinks slowly at the boy. "I suppose we will see in a month, won't we?"

He appearates back to his study before Harry can say or do anything and he smoothes out his robes before going to deal with his confused troops. Oddly, the prospect isn't as annoying as usual, and he finds he is rather looking forward to a month later, no matter if he'll kill the boy or just bring him home. In fact, given the positive reaction Harry had to the events following his temporary death, he's pretty certain Harry's death is not entirely on the menu anymore.

"Are you alright my lord?" It is Bellatrix who asks.

"Never better." He responds, for once entirely sincere. "Now, to business."

His death eaters begin to sit down at the table and Voldemort thinks about those pretty green eyes with an grin. And if his smile unnerves his troops more than his sudden call to retreat fid, well that is no one's business but his own.


End file.
